


Stories and Gods - Working Title

by AkilaDelpanther



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 08:40:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14565258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkilaDelpanther/pseuds/AkilaDelpanther
Summary: right this is the prologue for my yet unwritten trilogy -warning - does not have beta - warned.





	Stories and Gods - Working Title

**Author's Note:**

> there are three books called Marry Me in the Twilight, Shelter me in the Dawn and Love me in the Dark. of the three I started the first one four years ago and yeah I still only have 500-600 words of that, I think a combination of uni and life happened also, tag suggestions and suggestions for the series name would be much appreciated along with constructive criticism and a beta. and possibly a new title name if it needs one.

There is a story not yet written in the world of men. A story known only to the Gods of the world. 

In Westeros, The Old Gods of the North and Beyond the Wall guard this story jealously within their white weirwood bones, through their blood-red leaves are whispers are heard but never the full length, it gurgles in the streams and rivers. It trembles in the earth.

The Wind carries it screaming from beyond the Wall, into every nook and cave and crevice until every stone knows it, from the mountain to pebble, the lesser trees speak of it to each other but grow silent when men draw near. It is not a story for them hear, not yet anyway. the Wind passes the story through the marshes of the Neck, before giving to the Seven of the South and the Drowned God of the Sea. 

The Seven will carry it across the realm from the Neck to Dorne, the earth, the sky, the very land that men walk upon will know the story, the animals with shiver and cry out for they can feel the story pass through them. The Seven hold the story close and wait, listening to the prayers all the while they whisper the story in the septs to the deafened ears of man.

The Drowned God carries the story in the waves, from the Iron Islands to the Sunset sea to the Narrow sea and the to the heat of Essos, he tells it to the ironborn who crow in delight at the viciousness of his storms, to the sailors and merchants who cowered and pray for mercy, because the sea alight with terror and writhing with joy. Waves rise and crash, thunder and lightning crackle as the sky shrieks with wildness. The story travels swift and violently, passing under the Titan, until it washes up on the shores of Braavos, meandering through the canals and all Free cities from Lorath to Volantis before coming to rest by a great grass sea.

The Great Stallion picks it up and with thundering hooves, He bares it throughout the Dotharki Sea. The ever-burning remains of Old Valyria shudder and bellow fire at his passing from the Mother of Mountains and the Womb of the World to Slaver’s Bay, through the Red Wastes to the Bone Mountains and beyond. Never stopping or slowing he carries this story through plains of the Jogos Nhai and the Mountains of the Morn, only here does he stop, only here does he rest, for before him lies only shadow and that is not his realm.

On the edge of the shadow, the story is borne upward into ash and smoke, above the ruin and wastes of Asshai. It drifts, twirling in shadow, up and up into Rhllor’s Hearth. Here the story the dances with his flames. Drawn into the heart of the fire, hidden from his priests, the story begins to come clear. Rhllor throws it out into the world, showering sparks, unravelling. The Winds bare it back across the world and in Braavos, behind a door of black and white, shadows made of many faces watch as the story passes them, the shadows gather and coalesce into one from that turns to the other gods who are him and beholds the story. they can feel it, in their bones of earth, in the breath of storms, in the depths of the sea, they feel it but it has yet to be told.

The Shadow who is one who is many, stands in the view of many faces, in his hands lies the story, he raises them to his chest, then to his lips and begins to whisper, scattering the story. It is the scent of winter roses and the taste of ash on the tongue, it is the heat of the doom and the cold bite of icy winds. It is the roars of lions, the howls of wolves, the cracking of an egg within a flame. It is the green flash of wildfire, the sharp white sting of snow, a red wound in the sky. It is the dying summer and the rising winter. The death of the sun to birth the moon. A night unlike no other, with only a sword of light in the darkness to guide the way. A song of ice, of fire, a prince, a promise. This is a story not yet written, there are many paths it could take, twist and turns it may make. The mirror is shattered, the pieces fall, the tapestry fraying at the seams. One thread unbroken.

It’s a story that begins, where they all began, where it all began, where a Dragon spurned a Sun for a She-Wolf, who loved a Viper and was betrothed to a Stag.

It begins in Harrenhal.


End file.
